The Accidental sorcerer ra-1 Read online

  True, true, damnably true. And when I've done watching him, what then? I've no authority here, or jurisdiction. I'm not even a probationary compliance officer any more. If I had any sense at all I'd listen to Reg. Get out while the going's good. But even if I didn't have a contract, I promised Melissande I'd help. He pressed his fingertips into his eyes. Ale and my big mouth.

  He pushed himself to his feet. 'I need to get Monk onto finding those former court wizards for me. I know it's a long shot, but if just one of them has an idea of how to keep Lional in check…'

  But Monk wasn't answering his crystal ball. Disgruntled, he retrieved the recording incant, transmitted his predecessors' names with an urgent request for their contact details, then pulled the nearest bell-rope and ordered lunch from the breathless servant who turned up some fifteen minutes later.

  Once he'd finished his soup and sandwiches, and Reg had gobbled her chopped chicken liver, it was perilously close to three o'clock.

  With a show of devil-may-care he was a long way from feeling, he bathed, changed, then inspected himself in the mirror… Gerald Dunwoody, Wizard Spy… God help him…

  After that it was time to go. He called for a servant to guide him through the labyrinthine palace corridors and made his way to the Large Audience Chamber with Reg uncharacteristically silent on his shoulder.

  As for his spare cherrywood staff, he left it behind. Something told him he didn't need it any more. Lional was already in the audience chamber, ensconced on yet another extravagant throne. From head to foot he was swathed in gold and studded with rubies. Tavistock, freshly groomed and sleekly oiled, gleamed at his feet. As the herald's announcement of his arrival echoed beneath the lavishly frescoed ceiling Gerald made his way from the doors to the dais. The walk took forever: the room was absolutely enormous.

  'Right on time, Professor,' Lional greeted him, glittering in the chandelier light. 'How gratifying. Do come and stand beside me. We must present a united front, musn't we?'

  He climbed the dais stairs. 'Certainly, Your Majesty'Taking up a position discreetly to the rear of the throne, he looked around the empty chamber. 'Ah — I thought there'd be more people here. Attendants. Minor aristocracy'

  Lional laughed. 'I have no need of them, Professor. On occasions similar to this one my late father, when he could be prised from his wheelbarrow, surrounded himself with ministers and secretaries, courtiers and chamberlains, experts all… and yet still we find ourselves in our present invidious position. He was a timorous fellow, my father. Too afraid to seize life by the throat. Too willing to let others do the thinking for him. In that respect, Professor, as in so many others, I am not my father's son.'

  Which was a great shame. At least his father hadn't brought the kingdom to the brink of a war it had no hope of winning…

  The herald positioned at the chamber's open doors cleared his throat. 'Your Majesty?' he called. 'The Kallarapi delegation is approach — owV

  'They can wait a minute!' declared Melissande, having shoved the hapless herald aside.'Lional, hold your horses! I want a word with you!'

  'Blimey bloody Charlie,' Reg muttered as the shaken herald hurriedly closed the chamber doors. 'She wants a word with a fashion consultant is what she wants.'

  The princess, marching towards the dais, had made a valiant effort to match her brother's habitual magnificence… and failed. Gerald felt his jaw clench, and his guts turn over in horrified sympathy. Melissande, Melissande… what were you thinking?

  Her rust-red hair was tortured into an odd looking construction on top of her head and stabbed to death with crystal-topped pins that looked like an outbreak of colourful warts. Her face — minus its glasses — was coated in makeup: bristly mascara-laden eyelashes, startled blue-rimmed eyes, embarrassed cheeks and lips the colour of over-ripe plums turned her ordinary features into a poster for bad abstract art. Her dress was a bilious green satin sack trimmed with blue-dyed feathers and finished about the hem with voluminous mulberry-coloured netting. To complete the ensemble she'd chosen thick dark tights, laddered at the ankle, and bricklike shoes in a moth-eaten black.

  The only part of the outfit that worked was the matching pearl necklace and earrings.

  'Melissande?' Lional enquired, his voice suggesting that hidden within its velvet sheath was a very sharp knife that could see the light of day at any moment. 'Would you care to explain?'

  She halted before the throne. 'Look,' she said forcefully, 'sorry to interrupt, Lional, but who's the damned princess around here anyway? I'm just as much Blood of the King as Prince Nerim is Blood of the Sultan and on top of that I'm the prime minister. I deserve to be in this meeting!'

  Lional frowned. 'Melissande, you'd be well advised not to take that tone with me. / wear the crown in this family, not you.'

  She waved a pointed finger under his nose. 'Exactly! So why are you letting the Kallarapi tell you who can and can't be present at a meeting in your audience chamber?'

  Lional leaned back on his throne and considered her from head to toe. Eventually he said musingly, 'I don't suppose you know exactly who is responsible for that fetching gown you're wearing, do you?'

  'I might,' said Melissande, suddenly wary. 'But only if you want to write them a card saying how nice it is.' 'That wasn't my first thought, no.'

  'In that case,' she replied, chin up, 'I found it in the bottom of my closet and I don't have the faintest idea how it got there.'

  Lional sighed and passed a weary hand across his eyes.'If only I didn't find that so easy to believe.'

  Through gritted teeth his sister said,'If I've told you once, Lional, I've told you a million times, I'm not a clothes horse. If you want a decorative female around here you'll have to marry one. Now can I stay or can't I?'

  There was a long silence, punctuated by Tavistock's heavy breathing, during which Lional stared into the distance with half-lidded eyes and his lips pursed. Then he nodded. 'Very well. On one condition.'

  Beneath the layers of makeup Melissande blushed with pleasure. 'Name it.'

  Lional turned. 'Dear Professor. Be a good chap and fix her, would you?'

  Taken off guard, Gerald answered without thinking.'Fix her? I didn't know she was broken.'

  Lional waved an impatient hand. 'Her presentation, man. Do something about that abominable frock… and the rest of her.'

  He didn't dare look at Melissande. She'd kill me, she'd kill me, I'd wake up dead. 'Ah — forgive me for saying so, Your Majesty, but do you really think it's appropriate for me to — '

  'No, it isn't!' snapped Melissande.'There's nothing wrong with how I look! Honestly, Lional! I'm in a dress, what more do you want? I'm not going to have him — ' 1 MelissandeV

  Her eyes were very bright. With tears or temper, Gerald wasn't sure. 'Sorry'

  Lional's fingers drummed on the arm of his chair. 'It's your choice, prime minister. Change your unfortunate appearance or leave.'

  Melissande let out a shaking breath. 'Some choice,' she muttered.Then she turned, glaring.'Well, Professor? What are you waiting for? Get on with it.'

  Gerald swallowed.'Certainly, Your Highness. If I might just have a moment to confer with my — my — fashion consultant?'

  She made a rude sound and glared at the ceiling. Lional sighed. 'A very brief moment. I'm sure I have nothing better to do with my time than kick my heels while you and your feathery friend natter about last year's hemlines.'

  He bowed then put some distance between himself and the royal siblings. 'Help, Reg!' he demanded in an urgent whisper. "If I put her in the wrong frock I'll offend her, Lional and the Kallarapi!!'

  'The Kallarapi are going to be offended no matter what frock she's wearing, sunshine,' Reg pointed out. 'And I wouldn't worry too much about offending her, either. Not if that sack she's wearing is her idea of fashion that flatters.' She snuck a look under her right wing. 'Give me strength! If only she wasn't such a box of a girl!' 'RcgV

  'All right, all right!' She heaved a long-suffering sigh and stuck her
head under her wing for another look. 'Cripes. Just don't expect a miracle.'

  He closed his eyes and concentrated as Reg whispered into his ear. When she'd finished designing Melissande's new ensemble, she shook her head. 'And that's the best I can do on short notice.'

  'Thanks.' Turning to Melissande he said, 'I'm ready, Your Highness. Are you?'

  'Yes.' The word came out cold and clipped, and in her eyes a promise of hot words later.

  He swallowed annoyance. Because this is all my fault, of course… The words of the incant hovered on the tip of his tongue, waiting to be spoken. Opening his mouth he let them fly free.

  Power licked his bones with a lascivious warmth. Revelling in it, he uttered a silent command that summoned to his inner eye an image of the princess as she was at this moment: vertically challenged — horizontally overcompensated — crowned with that unfortunate hair — slathered with all the wrong makeup and swathed in that dreadful dress. But not for much longer.

  Preserving modesty, the bilious green satin darkened and transmuted to a rich, glowing blue-green shot-silk taffeta which melted over the feathers and the tragic squashed-mulberry netting, swallowing them entirely. For a moment it slipped and slid around her as though making up its mind. Then the fabric settled sinuously into place… and Melissande was wearing an elegantly simple frock with a demure v-neck, long sleeves and tapered skirt that finished a decorous two inches below her knees.

  'So far, so good,' Reg whispered. 'Now for the shoes.'

  He snapped his fingers and recited the next incant. The little Melissande before his mind's eye squeaked as the black bricks disappeared from her feet and she immediately became four inches shorter. Then she squeaked again as new shoes appeared. Slim, elegant midnight blue shoes, with just enough heel to enhance her posture and lengthen her legs, and a gently tapered toe to lend an air of sophistication. The finishing touch: sheer silk stockings. Black. Unladdered. 'Very nice,' approved Reg. 'Hair next.'

  Still watching his inner Melissande, Gerald uttered a new incant. Obediently the princess's rusty red hair untangled and became a smooth, shining fall of rich auburn that rearranged itself into a gleaming helmet and rolled into a smooth twist at the back. The warty crystal pins disappeared, replaced by pearl-headed pins that inserted themselves diplomatically and discreetly, keeping the twist in place without the least sign of frenzied skewering. They matched the jewellery perfectly, which he left alone.

  Reg clacked her beak. 'Well done. Now gild the lily.'

  He frowned. Gild the — oh. Melissande's makeup. Yes. Of course. But makeup? He took a deep breath and thought of his mother's quiet, understated elegance.

  With a raised fingertip he erased the virulent blue eye shadow, the clumping mascara, the clown-red rouge and the flaming lipstick. Replaced them with a discreet feathering of lavender, a tinting of eyelash, a hint of blush on the cheek, a suggestion of rose on the lips.

  Tentatively he opened his eyes to check the result in the flesh, and only just stopped his jaw dropping in shock.' Wow Your Highness, you look… wonderful.'

  'I'll be the judge of that,' she said, nervously truculent. 'So don't just stand there. Fetch me a mirror!'

  With a careless snap of his fingers he produced the full-length cheval-glass from his own dressing room. Melissande looked at her reflection.'Oh,' she said at last. Her expression was unreadable.

  Eyes glittering, Lional stared intently at his sister. Slowly, as though in a trance, he slid off his throne, stepped down from the dais to the chamber floor and prowled around her in rapt silence. Then he turned. 'Professor, you are… magnificent.'

  'Oh, no, Your Majesty' he said, his eyes not leaving Melissande's face. 'Not me. But I think Her Highness might be.'

  She was still vertically challenged. Still horizontally overcompensated. Her hair was still, at heart, a rusty red. But any suggestion of frumpiness had vanished. She was sleek now, and polished, and she looked like Lional's sister. 'Cor!' said Reg.'It is a bloody miracle!'

  Diffidently, he stepped forward. 'Your Highness? Is it — you know — all right? I can change it if you're not satisfied. Just say the word.'

  Slowly, as though waking from a dream, Melissande tore her gaze away from her elegant, polished reflection. She appeared dazed. 'No,' she said faintly. 'That won't be necessary. Thank you very much.'

  She didn't sound terribly grateful, though. If anything, she sounded… despairing.

  'Yes indeed,' said Lional, and poured himself back into his throne, gold on gold. Beside him, Tavistock purred. 'That's another debt of gratitude you've incurred, Professor. At this rate you'll see me beggared!' He bowed.'Not at all, Your Majesty.'

  Still dazed, Melissande said, 'Lional, we'd better not keep the Kallarapi waiting any longer.'

  'Indeed not! Professor, get rid of the mirror. Melissande, invite our guests to join us.'

  Gerald returned the mirror to his suite and watched Melissande cross the vast expanse of carpet to the audience chamber's doors. Wearing high heels she even walked differently. Almost… alluringly. 'Remarkable,' Lional murmured.

  She opened the doors and said something to someone in the anteroom beyond. There was a pause, and then the sound of a male voice raised in protest. Melissande's shoulders stiffened. She tried to speak again and was over-ridden. She stepped back, closed the doors and marched back to the dais.

  So much for allure. The way she was walking now, those high heels were deadly weapons.

  'They won't come in,' she announced, flushed with anger.

  'Won't come in?' said Lional, eyebrows lifting. 'Whatever do you mean?'

  'Exactly what I said, Lional. The Kallarapi won't come in while I'm here. Prince Nerim refuses point blank to discuss anything with a woman present.'

  Lional sat up. 'Well, that's unacceptable! You're not a woman, you're my prime minister! How dare he insult me in this fashion? He'll meet with both of us or go back to Kallarap with his tail between his legs and an empty purse to boot!'

  Melissande sighed. 'No. New Ottosland's future is a million times more important than my pride. Or yours, for that matter. It's all right, Lional. I'll g°'

  For a moment it looked as though Lional was going to argue, then he nodded. 'Very well. Your sacrifice is appreciated, Melly. And don't you worry: I'll make sure the Kallarapi pay for this insult.'

  'Thank you. I think.' She turned, her expression strenuously neutral. 'Professor? Good fortune attend your first encounter with the Kallarapi. I look forward to hearing all about it.'

  So. It was back to spying again. Damn. Gerald bowed. 'Thank you, Your Highness.'

  As she disappeared through a small, discreet door in the wall behind the dais, the chamber's main doors flung open.

  'Your Majesty!' the herald shouted. 'I present to you Prince Nerim of Kallarap, Blood of the Sultan, and Shugat, Holy Man of the Kallarapi.'

  In walked the Kallarapi delegation to the strains of a blistering fanfare. Gerald let out a hard breath. Here we go, then. Saint Snodgrass defend me.

  From the look of him, Prince Nerim hovered somewhere around eighteen years of age. His height was average, his build slender. Olive skin was moulded over high cheekbones and a broad brow. His deep-set eyes, fringed with extravagant lashes, were a clear light brown. A short black beard jutted from his chin, barbered and pomaded into a ruthless point which was tucked into a gold ferrule. His shirt and trousers were of pristine white linen. A belt of solid gold studded with emeralds clasped his waist. On his feet were curly-toed golden half-boots decorated with diamonds and on his head a cloth-of-gold turban. Fixed front and centre was a yellow diamond bigger than a hen's egg, with four curly white feathers dipped in gold sprouting above it. Shiny black ringlets curled from beneath the turban's edges, shyly brushing his shirt collar.

  'Talk about sending a boy to do a man's job,' breathed Reg, swallowing a snort of disgust. 'That popinjay's window dressing, Gerald. It's the other one we need to worry about…' The other one. Kallarap s holy man.


  Shugat was so old his spine had curved him over like a sapling under heavy snow. A scraggly grey beard adorned his brown leather face and his bald, polished head was bare. He wore a plain brown robe, rough-spun and ill fitting, which was belted around his concave middle with a ratty old bit of rope. His callused feet were encased in scuffed leather sandals and his gnarled, ringless right hand grasped a knobbly wooden staff taller than he was.

  Set into his forehead, above the bridge of his fiercely hooked nose, some kind of rough-hewn crystal the colour of dirty milk and no bigger than a bantam's egg.

  Shugat looked up, revealing deep-sunk eyes as bright and burning as newborn stars…

  … and Gerald felt a shocking shudder run right through him as he fell headlong into that molten gaze.

  Waves of power were suddenly radiating off the Kallarapi holy man, distorting the surrounding air. Holy man? Try wizard. Even from thirty feet away Gerald could feel his skin crisp and his hair curl from the raw thaumaturgical energy Shugat emitted. On his shoulder, Reg was gasping.

  All that power… and he'd never sensed so much as a spark of it even though they were living in the same palace. He'd never met anyone who could hide himself so completely. Shugat was to First Grade wizardry what elephants were to ants.

  Bloody hell! Lional thinks he can tell this man what to do? He thinks I can tell him? He really is mad. Shugat could squash us flat with the blink of one eye.

  This meeting was a waste of time. Doomed to failure before it had even begun. The Kallarapi didn't need an army. They had Shugat… and all New Ottosland had was him. Damn. I really should have listened to Reg.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Just as Gerald thought he'd have to look away from Shugat or burst into flames, the holy man's measured strides faltered and his sulphurous gaze shifted abruptly to Reg and then to Tavistock. The lion stared back, lazily insolent. Reg gurgled in her throat.

  Shugat halted, thrusting his head forward like a hunting dog in search of prey. Prince Nerim glanced back and stopped, surprised. Opened his mouth to query or protest and was silenced by Shugat's upraised hand.